


Of all the Mini-Marts in all the World

by AngryGinger (Error401)



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Gen, Guns, Hostage!Ian, M/M, Protective!Mickey, Robbery, Violence, bad life choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-28 16:53:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Error401/pseuds/AngryGinger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His first mistake was trying to rob the Kash and Grab on a night Mickey Milkovich was working. </p><p>His second was pointing a gun at Ian Gallagher.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of all the Mini-Marts in all the World

It was almost closing time, and Ian was using the last half hour to restock shelves so he wouldn’t have to do it in the morning. It was getting to that time of night where even the drunks were curled up on benches or taking shelter in their makeshift houses under the L train tracks. He yawned in between cans, using one hand to cover his mouth and the other to straighten a label so that it was facing towards the front. 

He felt like a zombie, dark shadows smudged under his eyes and completely zapped of energy, work and school and ROTC and dealing with his family taking everything out of him. Hell, he’d been so tired that he didn’t even want to fuck Mickey on their dinner break, and that was saying something. He’d been trying to convince Linda to hire more help, but she was pregnant and hormonal and, even under normal conditions, didn’t like listening to reason when it came to spending more money. 

He sighed from where he knelt on the linoleum, rubbing his hands up and down his thighs to try and stave off the prickling that meant they were falling asleep. He could picture his bed in his mind, and he imagined falling into it and sinking into warm blankets and sleeping forever. It was all he really wanted. He reached into the box next to him to grab another can.

The door slammed open with way more force than necessary, and he fell back onto his ass in surprise, still holding the can. His first thought was that the guy couldn’t be local. Anyone who was anyone knew that you didn’t mess with a place where a Milkovich was involved. It was basically suicide. His second thought was that, from his position, there was no way he was going to be able to get to the gun behind the register before the guy in the clown mask killed him.

“Put your hands where I can see ‘em, kid,” the guy said, voice muffled as it was blocked by the plastic. “You move and I’ll put a fucking bullet in your ass.” The gun he pointed at Ian’s face was nicer than most he was used to seeing in this neighborhood. It was a nine mil, but plated in silver or some shit, rather than the standard steel barrel and duct-taped grip. He glanced around quickly before jumping behind the counter to the register. 

Ian swallowed. In her paranoia, Linda had a new system installed that would only let the register be opened when an employee-specific set of numbers was entered, so she knew which person was opening the cash drawer at which time. 

The robber smashed every key on the keyboard and even tried smashing the drawer itself, and Ian was surprised that the thing didn’t just break apart and open, considering its old age, but it stubbornly held shut. He raised the gun and pointed it at Ian again, who was still sitting on the floor with his hands up. “Get the fuck over here and open this thing!” he growled. 

Ian swallowed again, pushed himself slowly to his feet, and took a few hesitant steps towards the register. Maybe he could take the gun from the idiot if he caught him off guard. 

“Hey, firecrotch, you done yet?” Mickey asked loudly, rubbing at his sleep-encrusted eyes as he left the back room and entered the store, dark hair sticking up in every direction. Both he and Ian froze as they took in the sight of the other. “What the fuck? Are you a fucking idiot?” Mickey asked the guy with the mask incredulously. 

“Get on the floor!” the robber shouted, training the gun on Mickey. Mickey jerked his head back, affronted. Ian thought he was probably remembering his own shooting not too long ago, because Ian sure as hell was having flashbacks. But this wasn’t Kash, this was someone who probably would kill them, because the name Milkovich didn’t mean anything to him. 

“Fuck you!” Mickey said, sticking out his middle finger.

The robber visibly bristled and, as though getting a sudden idea, turned his head to look at Ian before turning the gun back to where it was before Mickey walked in. “Get on the floor, or I blow his fucking head off,” he said darkly, waving the gun up and down the length of Ian’s body.

Mickey looked at Ian, who was suddenly now a lot more in fear for his life, and gritted his teeth, muttering curses before, haltingly, sinking to his knees on the floor. Ian gaped.

“Hands behind your head, fingers laced,” the guy said smugly. When Mickey hesitated, he jumped from behind the counter and approached Ian himself, jabbing the barrel into Ian’s temple. “Now.”

Mickey obeyed, shooting daggers out of his eyes as the robber grabbed Ian’s arm and dragged him to the register, keeping the gun pressed against him the entire time. 

“Open it!” the robber demanded, jabbing the gun threateningly into Ian’s lower back to the point of bruising.

Ian probably could have taken the gun away from him. He knew how. He was supposed to be trained for situations exactly like these. But the reality was different. His muscles were taught, strained, and his whole body was practically vibrating. He was afraid. His hands were shaking to the point where he almost messed up his code, but he did finally get the drawer to pop open.

“Fucking finally,” the guy hissed, nudging Ian to the side. “What the fuck? Where’s the rest of it?”

“The rest…” Ian said helplessly. “What rest? This is it.” It was two in the morning on a Tuesday, and Linda had already had him take the cash to the bank in the afternoon, like he did every day since she was confined to bed, because they made the most profit with the morning rush.

“Where the fuck is it?!” the guy demanded, fisting a handful of Ian’s shirt and pressing the gun under his jaw, forcing his head up. 

“Th-this is all there is!” Ian stuttered, chest heaving, trying to turn away from the gun but unable to move, the cold metal biting into his jawbone. 

“You lying little fuck,” the guy scoffed. He pulled the gun from Ian’s jaw and slammed it into his stomach, driving the air from his lungs, and would have sent him to his knees if not for the hand in his shirt.

“Hey!” Mickey shouted, lunging to his feet. “I’ll show you where it is, fuckhead!”

“Oh yeah?” he menaced. “Bring it here.” He tapped the barrel on top of Ian’s forehead.

Mickey flicked his eyes to Ian’s pained ones and nodded.

“I have it here,” Mickey held his hands up in the air. “I was gonna’ put it under the register before we closed. I just gotta reach into my jacket and get the bag, yeah?”

“Slow,” the robber said, tightening his grip on Ian’s shirt.

“Just take it easy, I’ll reach on three, okay?” Mickey pacified. “One.” He lowered one hand. “Two.” As he reached into his jacket, he pointed one finger downward. “Three.”

Ian grabbed the hand holding the gun and dropped, pulling all of his weight to force the gun to point to the floor. He heard the robber scream almost immediately after and dared to glance up to see the hilt of Mickey’s butterfly knife protruding out of his clavicle. Quickly, Ian forced the gun away from the guy’s hand and stepped out of reach, pointing it at him. “Don’t you dare fucking move!”

“Gallagher, you cool?” Mickey asked, pretending not to look him over as he joined Ian’s side.

“Y-yeah,” Ian shook his head, steadying his aim as his hands slowed their shaking. “You should get out of here, Mick. Even if this was an attempted robbery, I don’t want your parole getting revoked over this shit.”

“Yeah,” Mickey agreed, eyeing the groaning figure on the ground. “Shut the fuck up, asshole! If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your mouth shut or find a shiv in your neck when they take you to Central Lockup. Milkovichs don’t take well to dickheads.” He turned his focus back on Ian, taking in the slight tremors with every breath. “You call the cops, I’ll stay till they get here.”

“A Milkovich waiting for the cops to show up?” Ian chuckled. “I’ve seen it all.”

“I guarantee you, firecrotch,” Mickey said quietly, his voice holding more than a promise, “you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

Cracking his knuckles loudly, he approached the robber. "You picked the wrong fucking store, shitface."


End file.
